


Are You Done?

by bella8876



Series: 30 days of Sterek drabbles [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Established Relationship, Future Fic, I really am, I'm sorry about this, M/M, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella8876/pseuds/bella8876
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of blood hit him halfway down.  There was a lot of it.  The stench coated the back of his throat and he could taste the copper when he swallowed.  His feet hit the concrete floor and he took in the scene.  He’d been on the force for over 15 years, seen things no one should ever have to see.  But this, this was too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are You Done?

**Author's Note:**

> Day 9 of 30 Days of Sterek
> 
> Prompt: "There are no winners in this life, only losers. And me."
> 
> I really am very sorry for this.

The Sheriff laid his hand in the middle of the door, the wood was smooth and cool under his fingers. He closed his eyes, remembering the weeks he and Derek spent sanding and painting it before finally hanging it. They’d saved it for last when they’d done the remodel. Stiles had found them on the porch, he and Derek, shoulder to shoulder, just staring at their handy work. 

_“We have a door,” Stiles had said with a smile as Derek took the grocery bags from his hands._

_“Yeah,” Derek smiled back. “We do.”_

That was the moment when he realized he hadn’t just been helping Derek fix up his house. He’d been helping Derek and Stiles fix up _their_ house. 

The Sheriff pushed lightly and it swung open easily. The hinges didn’t even creak. He hesitated at the threshold. He hadn’t been inside in over two years. Not since—he closed his eyes. He could hear the sirens now. They were still about five minutes away. He needed to get there first. He owed Stiles that much. He stepped inside. 

The house was dark. He didn’t bother with the light switch, the electricity was cut off years ago. The whole place smelled damp, musty. A fine layer of dust covered every surface, coating the furniture that no one bothered to take away. 

  
The Sheriff stopped in the doorway to the living room. There was a book laying on the arm rest of the couch, a little more than half way read, never finished. A leather jacket was tossed over the top of one chair and the Sheriff let his fingers brush it as he made his way into the kitchen. There were dishes in the drying rack by the sink and he was willing to bet there were grounds in the coffee pot. Derek had always done that at night so Stiles didn’t have to in the morning.

He walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the basement. He didn’t bother trying to be quiet. Stiles had known the minute he’d stepped foot on the property line. The Sheriff traced the small rune carved into the wood. They were all over the house. 

_“It’s my early warning system,” Stiles explained as he carved it into the door frame. “It glows when there’s stuff.”_

The Sheriff wondered if they had glowed that day. If Stiles had known what was coming. 

He took the steps slowly, wanting to delay this moment as much as possible. He’d been delaying it for two years now. What was two more minutes?

The smell of blood hit him halfway down. There was a lot of it. The stench coated the back of his throat and he could taste the copper when he swallowed. His feet hit the concrete floor and he took in the scene. He’d been on the force for over 15 years, seen things no one should ever have to see. But this, this was too much. 

Stiles was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, legs pulled up to his chest. His hands were resting on his knees, blood sliding down his fingers, his head ducked, chin touching his chest. The Sheriff tore his gaze away from his son and across the room where Chris Argent’s body was hanging from a set of chains attached to the ceiling, swinging gently back and forth. His eyes were open wide, glassy and lifeless, head lolled to the side. There was a bullet wound in his shoulder. The bottom half of his body had been cut off, his legs sprawled in a pool of his own blood on the floor where they’d fallen, an honest to god broad sword lying forgotten next to them. 

“Not as easy as it looks,” Stiles said, not even bothering to lift his head. “It took hours the first time. The spinal chord’s the tricky bit. If the swords sharp enough you can do it one go. I made sure it was dull.” 

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Stiles had left Chris for last on purpose. Maybe he thought it was poetic. Maybe he just wanted Chris to know what it felt like. To know there was someone out there, tracking each and every last member of his family down and killing them. Wanted Chris to know what it felt like to be the last one left, to be utterly and completely alone. 

He’d come to Stiles after the funerals, clapped a hand on his shoulder like they were friends, like he had the right to touch Stiles. Like his family hadn’t just destroyed everything he had left in the world. He stood there on Derek’s grave and apologized. He might have even been sorry. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. 

They came to town in the middle of the night with no warning. Allison said they were part of a council, the family elders. They didn’t like the way Chris had been handling things in Beacon Hills, sitting back while Derek built a pack, letting them run around town unchecked, _pretending_ to be human.

They waited for the full moon. Apparently hunting them as wolves was more sporting. They got Isaac first, he didn’t even have time to howl for help. Scott was next. Stiles can still see the look on Scott’s face as the sword sliced through his abdomen when he tries to sleep. Boyd lasted a bit longer, it took four of them to taken him down, fighting until his last breath. 

A lot of that night is just a blur but Stiles remembers Derek dragging him back to the house. He remembers the hunters crashing through the trees after him. He remembers Derek grabbing the back of his neck, his hands slippery with blood; Stiles can’t remember whose though. He remembers Derek kissing him, remembers Derek shoving him up the porch steps. 

_“Go down to the basement. Lock yourself in.” Derek ordered him._

_“No!” Stiles screamed. “I’m not going to leave you.”_

He remembers the arrows, the pain in his shoulder. He remembers Derek’s howls. And then nothing. Until he woke up on the floor of the basement in a pool of Derek’s blood. The top half of Derek’s body hanging from the chains in the ceiling, the bottom half by Stiles’s feet. He’s still not sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he didn’t have to watch Derek die. 

They left the next day just like they’d come, in the middle of the night, with no warning. They’d done what they came to do, wiped out the wolves. But they’d left Stiles alive. That was their second mistake. 

As long as there were wolves, there would always be hunters. Stiles knew that. When he’d set out over two years ago, he’d never intended to get them all. But the Argents, those he could find. Those he could kill. After all, everything came back to them. 

He tracked them down, one by one. Danny helped. Stiles didn’t want to get him involved but Danny insisted. They worked out a system. Danny would track them, Stiles would hunt them. Then they’d move onto the next one and the next. They hit pay dirt in Quebec. Danny had assumed they’d have some sort of base camp and he’d been right. All Stiles needed was to find his way in. 

He took a page from Kate’s book. It had been easier than he expected. Find the right guy. Give him a smile, buy him a drink. It only took three weeks. Just three weeks and he was ready to give Stiles anything he wanted. He told Stiles all about the compound one night in bed, where it was, how to get in. Even let it slip they were having a reunion of sorts in a few weeks; actually invited Stiles to be his plus one. Stiles slit his throat and dumped him in the river. He preferred to go to things like that stag. 

Watching the Argent compound burn was a lot more cathartic then he thought it would be. But his work wasn’t done yet. He grabbed a computer from the compound before he burned it. From that Danny managed to track down the last few stragglers. Allison had been the only one he regretted. She’d found him in Arizona, tried to stop him. It didn’t end well. 

He’d come home after that. There was nowhere else to go. No one else to find. Chris hadn’t even tried to run. Stiles found him at his house, at his kitchen table; a bottle of scotch and two glasses sitting in front of him. Stiles wondered how long he’d been waiting. 

_“So I’m the last then?” Chris asked sliding one of the glasses in front of Stiles as he sat down. “There’s no one else?”_

_“You’re it,” Stiles said, setting his gun on the table and grabbing the drink._

_Chris nodded and took a sip. “I guess you win.”_

_Stiles snorted, “There are no winners in this life, only losers. And me.” Stiles shot back his whole glass in one go, then picked up his gun and shot Chris in the shoulder._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The Sheriff crouched down in front of Stiles and picked his gun up off the floor. The sirens were closer now, practically at the house. “Are you done?” The Sheriff asked quietly and Stiles turned him, his eyes just as dead and lifeless as Chris’s.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “I’m done.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Tumblr](http://www.bella8876.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Sometimes I do stuff with it.


End file.
